“Manafort called the national polls “distorted” because they rely “too much” on Hispanics from New York and California where, he said, “most of the radical Hispanics are.”
In the true swing states, Manafort claims, are big numbers of non-radical Hispanics, by which Manafort means “Hispanics who don’t mind being called criminals and threatened with deportation.”
Manafort’s optimism that Trumpism with survive the general election gives us all pause, but his identification of Radical Hispanicism has to make us wonder--is that a thing?
In a word, yes. The existence of Radical Hispanicism, and the fact that we Californians live in a hotbed of it, has long been suspected here in the south end of the Golden State. Radical Hispanics cleverly occupied the state before Anglos did, and littered the place with Spanish place names, names that freshly arrived gringos can comically mispronounce when they try. El Cajon. La Jolla. Jamacha. Just try and say them phonetically, and listen to Hispanics laugh, in their snickering Latin way. “Ha ha,” they mock us, or in Spanish, “Ha ha.”
They make us eat their food. There’s a taco shop in every strip mall here, so we can fill ourselves with Radical Hispanic chow. The aromas of warm, soft tortillas and spicy meat overlaid with the addictive smell of chopped onion and jalapeno waft along our southern breezes, meaning we victims of Radical Hispanicism ignore natural American food like canned string beans and shepherd’s pie in favor of digging into chile rellenos and camarones a la diabla. Which plays right into their clever brown hands.
They keep our lawns and gardens neat and tidy. Radical Hispanics know that they are weakening the moral fiber of white Americans by making sure we never get to mulch, mow or trim our own properties. They deny us the opportunity for personal growth afforded by sweating through the underbrush where our dogs poop and an occasional rattlesnake lurks. The whine of the power blower in his hands is the Radical Hispanic’s trumpet blare of revolution.
They clean our homes, too. Woe to us if they cease—most of us can’t even remember which end of a bottle of Tilex to point at bathroom scum anymore.
If you call someone to fix your refrigerator or your air conditioner, it’s a cinch a Radical Hispanic will show up and solve your problem for a reasonable price, which takes away your inclination to build some character by trying to fix it personally, even though that usually consists of watching a YouTube video in which an expert demonstrates how and then electrocuting yourself anyway.
As I write these words I am filled with a sense of self-loathing, because I know I personally have fallen for the Radical Hispanic agenda hook, line and sinker, for I am planning to vacation in Mexico in just two short weeks. I’ve opted once again for the lure of Baja sun, of traipsing through a peaceful land where the people are friendly, the fishing is good, the beer is cold, the beach hotels are cheap and you have to work really hard to find a bad restaurant.
No, no more. Actually, I was going to write “no mas,” which shows what a grip Radical Hispanicism already has on my mind, weakened by the countless plates of carne asada I’ve consumed and the mariachi bands I’ve listened to. I’m going to cancel those plans so I can spend $120 bucks a night at an Econolodge and eat breakfast for a week at a Denny’s in a state of the United States as far away from Radical Hispanicism as possible, Idaho maybe, or North Dakota, where I can breathe the bracing air of freedom instead of having my nose clogged with the scent of fresh cilantro.
I’m making my reservations now. Just as soon as I finish these fish tacos.